


I Need To Be Youthfully Felt (‘Cause God, I Never Felt Young)

by AwkwardGhost_1782



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Martin POV, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sort Of, The Inherent Homoromanticism of Fixing Someone’s Glasses, This is my third Safehouse fic someone call an ambulance, Yearning, tea as a metaphor for love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardGhost_1782/pseuds/AwkwardGhost_1782
Summary: That is not to say Martin thinks Jon doesn’t love him. Even a fool like him can tell that when someone beams their heart-aching adoration for you into your brain in the middle of a forsaken hellscape it usually means something. They haven’t said anything to each other, not yet, they don’t need to. But, well, Jon is Jon, love or not. And Martin thinks it was fair to assume he wasn’t exactly the spoiling type, that’s all.He probably should’ve known better, Jon having previously proposed to gouge his eyeballs out and run away with Martin and all.Or: The One In Which Martin Is Finally Cared For
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 216





	I Need To Be Youthfully Felt (‘Cause God, I Never Felt Young)

  
The first morning at the Safehouse Martin wakes up early.

He’s never been a morning person, preferring to cling to his pillow until the last of his sleep has seeped away from him and into his bed. But at this point, his internal clock is used to rousing him awake before the alarm even has a chance to try after years of waking up before 5 a.m. Idly, he wonders if he’ll have enough time to break that habit. Start ignoring his internal clock and staying asleep ‘til it’s hardly acceptable. This thought, of course, holds no weight. Because they’re on the run, he and Jon. They _don’t_ have time to make and create new habits.

But he does have time to cook breakfast. He’s… not really sure if Jon needs to eat anymore, actually. But whatever the answer is, a nice breakfast never hurt anybody. The safehouse doesn’t have much in the way of food, but they did manage to pick up a few things from the village on their way here yesterday. They’ll probably go back later today, but for now, Martin cracks two eggs and hopes they don’t taste too bad without salt.

At some point he zones out looking at the sizzling pan, sinking into a feeling of contentment he hasn’t felt in so long. The sun is spilling in from the kitchen window while rainwater from last night drips outside from the roof. Everything is quiet but in a nice way, a silence light enough to be broken by any gentle breeze. And sure his hands are cold and the tips of his hair will probably always be bleached white and he barely remembers how to hold a conversation but right here, right now, Martin feels _alright_.

He hasn’t felt alright in such a long time.

Martin finds himself smiling to himself when that peace is broken— or rather replaced by a different sort of peace— by bony arms wrapping around his middle. He startles but manages to not flinch at the unexpected embrace he now finds himself in.

“Good morning to you too,” Martin says, just the smallest hint of a quiver in his voice. That shouldn’t be an accomplishment, he thinks, but it feels like one. After The Lonely, everything has simply felt like _so much._

Jon hums a “Morning,” as his warm hands find their way under and up Martin’s sweater, settling on his waist, his thumbs moving in soft circles against his sides. And Martin is going to honest-to-god melt into a puddle.

Martin doesn’t ask how he slept, he knows the two of them can barely manage a good night’s rest anymore. What he does ask is “Fancy some eggs?”

Jon props his chin on Martin’s shoulder, his sleep-mussed hair tickling Martin’s cheek. It smells like honey shampoo. “That what you’re doing? It smells lovely,”

Martin settles with a “Mmh,” for a response because he’s sure he’s been rendered speechless for a second. He can’t— no one’s ever touched him like this before. So kindly, so comfortably. He’s afraid he’s dreaming; he’s afraid he’s not. It's almost like coming back to a home he’s never been to before. It’s so _simple_ , so trivial, but it feels like a gift.

“Anything I can do to help?” Jon asks followed by a kiss on his shoulder. Oh, so they’re doing that now. Jon might as well have grabbed a kitchen knife and plunged it into Martin’s bleeding heart.

“No, I’m good,” He manages to say, face so hot he can almost see the red of his cheeks. He hopes Jon can’t see him from where he’s settled on his shoulder. 

“I’ll set up the table,” Jon decides anyway and squeezes Martin’s sides before moving away.

 _Yep._ Martin concludes. _I am dead._

  
  
  
  
  


The thing about Martin is that he’s not certain about a lot of things. He’s certain about some of them like how spiders deserve more credit than they’re given and the fact he’s never going to understand the rules of most sports. The one thing he’s most certain about is the fact that he’s the caretaker. He’s the one who fusses over people and worries more about their well-being than his own. He had been dubbed “the mom friend” when he was still in school and his own mother often complained about his mothering. Martin takes care of other people and gets all the gratification he needs from the happiness in their faces when he finally does something right, that’s what he _does_ . He doesn’t need to be taken care of, he’s been more than fine this entire time. He doesn’t _mind_. So obviously, he was expecting things to go on as usual in Scotland.

That is not to say Martin thinks Jon doesn’t love him. Even a fool like him can tell that when someone beams their heart-aching adoration for you into your brain in the middle of a forsaken hellscape it usually means _something_ . They haven’t said anything to each other, not yet, they don’t need to. But, well, Jon is _Jon_ , love or not. And Martin thinks it was fair to assume he wasn’t exactly the spoiling type, that’s all.

He probably should’ve known better, Jon having previously proposed to gouge his eyeballs out and run away with Martin and all.

It was later that same day after they had gone into the village and picked up more groceries (well, Jon went into the village to get more groceries. Martin stayed at the safehouse and tried to clean up all the remaining dust. It would be ironic and even a little sweet if they died from excessive dust inhalation instead of brutally murdered by some monster or another, if that’s even a thing) He was sitting on the lumpy couch which was mostly covered by a moth-eaten blanket reading a book which contains an assortment of poems and a few sonnets (which Jon had bought for him while he was out. Martin’s never had a favourite book before but, well, he might now) the spine is broken and the pages are yellow-tinged and the faded printed words within it settle comfortably in Martin’s chest.

He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from smiling as Jon walks by holding a potted plant he _swears_ he’ll resurrect. By the look of his face, Martin failed to keep his lips from twitching upwards and in a second, Jon is placing the dying plant on the floor beside the couch. He plops himself on the cushion and lays Martin’s socked feet on his lap with a familiarity that’s still foreign to him.

“What are you reading?” He asks, his fingers tapping an unfamiliar rhythm on Martin’s heel. 

“Will you laugh if I say Keats?” He asks. It’s not Keats, but Martin is committed to defending his poetry against the likes of Jon.

Jon sighs dramatically. “I suppose I’ll have to come to terms with your questionable taste in poets if I intend to be with you,”

Martin’s hammering heart feels like it’s trying to jump up his throat and make itself at home on his sleeve. Instead, he takes a deep breath and rather than telling Jon which poet he’s reading, asks: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Jon huffs a surprised laugh. “I thought you hated Shakespeare,”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Just because I hate theatre doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy his sonnets,” He argues. 

“Fair enough,” Jon relents. “Would you… can you read the rest?” Jon asks, his eyes meeting Martin’s with an honesty that makes him feel weak.

He shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just a silly book and Jon is acting in a perfectly ordinary manner. So why does it seem like it’s everything? Like he wants to lock Jon’s gift inside a glass box to keep safe from the prying hands of the world as he reads the words until they become worn.

He clears his throat and though he could recite this sonnet from memory, he cannot withstand the intensity of Jon’s gaze so he flees, looking down at the page. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate…”

When he’s done reading Shakespeare’s damned love confession he keeps his gaze firmly on the page. His ears are scorching and Jon’s eyes on him are even worse. He feels like he just unintentionally bared his heart out to Jon which is stupid because he’s already done that in the most near-literal way possible. Jon’s hand reaches up to his face and instead of whatever is it what Martin thought he was going to do, gently pushes up Martin’s glasses from where they had slipped down his nose.

“They were about to fall off,” He hums, far closer than Martin had been anticipating.

“Oh.” He sighs, voice cracking in the middle.

He raises his face just slightly and Jon’s hand travels from the bridge of his nose down to his soft jawline.

Jon smiles, so painfully genuine in a way Martin never dared to dream he’d see. “There you go,” 

Before the messy, fucked-up soapy mess of feelings can spill from Martin’s mouth he grasps at Jon’s sweater ( _his_ sweater, actually, Jesus fuck) and shuts it with his lips. For a second Jon hesitates and Martin starts to freeze over with fear. But then his hold on Martin’s jaw becomes firmer as he leans into the kiss. At some point between gasping and pulling Jon into his lap, the book falls to the floor. It doesn’t matter, Martin barely registers it when he might as well be holding all the poetry in the world in his arms right now. He and Jon’s glasses press against each other almost painfully as Martin tilts his head to the side and nuzzles Jon’s cheek with his nose. It hurts, it’s uncomfortable, and Martin is on top of the world (or rather, he could say the world is on top of him. But he can save the sappy verses for later).

When they pull away, lips still warm and damp and brushing against each other as they speak, Jon laughs and says: “I never cared for Shakespeare that much, anyway. I’ve got my favourite poet right here,”

  
  
  
  
  


It’s tea that does it. Of course it’s tea.

As it turns out, two weeks at the safehouse are actually enough to develop a habit. And Martin finds himself waking up later each day. This morning he blinks sleep away from his eyes at approximately 10 a.m., which Martin has concluded is a delicious hour to wake up. Before him Martin sees Jon, soft in all of his sunlit edges, sitting on their bed with something in his hand.

He smiles as heart-achingly as ever. Such a small smile, and it means so much to Martin. “Morning,” He murmurs. 

Martin moves to stretch his arms above his head, groaning unabashedly. “Good mornin’”

He notices Jon wants to say something but hesitates. He wants to ask what’s in his hands, the room too blurry without his glasses on. But Jon beats him to it.

“I made you tea.”

For a second he feels stupid because of his inability to comprehend the words that just came from Jon’s mouth. That doesn’t make sense, _Martin_ makes tea for people, not the other way around. Martin hasn’t had tea made for him like, ever. It’s an improbability, a logical fallacy for someone to make tea for Martin.

That’s the point though, isn’t it?

He tries to speak. Say thanks, say no thanks, _anything_. But his chest feels full, waterlogged with love to the brim and he doesn’t know what to do except weep.

Jon startles at the sudden tears pouring from Martin’s face and seeping into the pillow. He leaves the mug on the bedside table (Jon made tea for him? For him?) and pulls Martin into his arms. He feels so very small and insignificant and his heart is so big it just doesn’t fit inside the confines of his ribcage. He sobs and soaks Jon’s shirt with tears and a part of him hopes they’ll cling to him so they never have to be apart which is _ridiculous_.

“Martin?” Jon asks. He tries to sound calm but worry can’t help but sneak into his voice and Martin loves him so much.

He sniffs, gross and ugly and in the arms of the only person he’ll ever love like this. “I just love you, that’s all,” He summarizes. 

Jon buries his face in Martin's sleepy curls and against his head says “I love you,” and means it.

(In the end, the tea was a little too bitter. But that’s okay. Martin loves it)


End file.
